


It was a Hit and Run, Love

by orphan_account



Category: Hot Fuzz (2007), The World's End (2013)
Genre: M/M, not a serious work of fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-14
Updated: 2013-10-14
Packaged: 2017-12-29 07:08:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1002420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nicholas Angel pulls Gary King over for speeding, and Peter gets done by the police.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It was a Hit and Run, Love

**Author's Note:**

> This is a silly, self-indulgent little thing, please forgive me. Enjoy.

Gary sees the lights first, half a mile from the pub. Then when he doesn't pull over, he hears the siren, which is when he figures it's for him. It's okay, he thinks, pulling to the kerb. It's okay. He's been pulled over probably twelve times so far; the points just go on Pete's license. He doesn't even have to pay the fines. He's only been arrested once, and that when he was twenty-six, for public intoxication, which meant a policeman caught him pissing against a wheelie-bin outside a Sainsbury's and Gary was too drunk not to make fun of his hair - but it was a bowlcut, so he was sort of asking for it.

This officer is clean-cut, though, with very short, very blonde hair. His name tag says N. Angel, and his eyes are as blue and clear as the summer sky. Gary rolls down the window.

"License and registration."

He goes through the familiar pat-and-search routine, recites the story about his sports bag at the gym and how about if he just gives the officer his name and address, and he can run it through the system? Angel writes it down, then retreats back to his squad car. He takes so long about it that Gary eventually digs out a cigarette, but he isn't paying attention, and when he turns to blow the smoke out the window, he gets Officer Angel right in the face. Angel's eyes close, and he gives this tiny, polite little cough. Gary tries not to laugh, because the guy's a policeman, but he'd bet anything that's how he sneezes, too, small and polite and controlled. He looks the sort of bloke who color codes things, who hates a mess.

"Sir," Angel says, once the smoke has dissipated, "the address you gave me doesn't match the one on the registration paperwork."

Shit. For a second, Gary's mind goes blank. Pete must have moved again; he hasn't been by in a few years to check on him. "I - I moved recently," he says, voice smoothing into confidence. "I must have forgotten to update the paperwork. I'll get that sorted as soon as I can, Officer, I promise."

Officer Angel's face is as cool and hard as stone. "Promises don't change the fact that you're driving with incorrect paperwork, without identification, possibly in a stolen vehicle," he says. "Please step out of the car."

"I - wait, are you serious? I've only forgotten to update my information."

"Step out of the car."

And there isn't much else he can do, with the guy standing right there, the gun at his hip level with Gary's face. He steps out of the car.

Nicholas grabs his arm hard, shoves him up against the window - and shit, he's got a grip like iron. He probably uses one of those fucking hand squeeze things at night before he goes to bed. PJs. Brush your teeth. Thirty reps on the hand squeeze thing.

"Look, Officer Angel. N, Angel. Is the N short for Nick? Can I call you Nick?"

"No."

"Are you seriously going to arrest me for forgetting to update my paperwork?"

"Not at all Mr. Page. I'm going to arrest you for claiming to have forgotten to update your paperwork in addition to driving without identification _and_ getting your address wrong, suggesting it is not in fact your address, and not in fact your car."

Gary's still pressed up against the car, but he's the right way around now, and he can see Angel, busy writing in a little pocket notebook. Gary gives him a quick, appraising look, then drops his voice till he's nearly purring. Bites his lip a little. He's always been good at this sort of thing, the quick, easy seduction; he slept with nine different girls in high school and thirty two since. It's as familiar as drinking, as his tattoos in the mirror when he wakes. "Nick, I'm sure there's something I can do to make you change your mind."

That gets his attention. Angel goes still, but then his head snaps up, lips folded into a thin line. His voice is crisp and stern and the words sound like he's reciting them. "Sir, I am an officer of the Metropolitan Police Service, and if you think for one second that I will be bribed, tricked, or seduced into letting you escape justice - "

"For fuck's sake I was only speeding," Gary says, and kisses him.

Gary is very good at kissing. He's had a lot of practice. It's a bit harder to do when his hands are cuffed behind his back, but he makes it work, pressing in warm and close against Angel's bulletproof vest and - okay, that's not gonna fly with the utility belt in the way. There's a leather pouch of something that cuts uncomfortably into his stomach, and he might have accidentally pressed the radio with his chin. But then he pushes his tongue into Angel's mouth, and that makes up for any awkwardness, because it turns out Angel's a brilliant kisser too. Might even, in fact, be better than Gary - not that it's a competition. Except it totally is.

Which is why Gary doesn't feel bad when he rears back to headbutt him. It hurts, more than it seems to in the movies, but he gets into the Beast before Angel really recovers, and he gets the door closed, then his hands fumbled around front, before Angel gets back to his car. And then he's peeling out into traffic as fast as he can.

The police siren flares up behind him, but Gary knows these streets; there are three pubs down the road to his right, and if he takes a left here he'll come to a parking garage, and he can go out through Crown Road onto Kingsway. He measures his distance by the receding sound of the siren, and when he can't hear it anymore he knows he's safe. He keeps driving, though. His heart's beating like a caught bird inside his ribs and he can't stop grinning.

 

 

 

 

Vanessa's been sick all day, so Peter ordered pizza for the kids. Half pepperoni, half cheese, and then vegetarian for Sam, who'd sworn off meat two weeks ago. So it isn't at all strange when someone knocks on the door just past six. The delivery boy sounds like he's in a hurry, though, Peter thinks, folding a loose newspaper sheet into his book as he heads toward the door. He knows how that is.

Except it's not the delivery boy. It's two police officers, two big blokes, one with a mustache, the other clean shaven, both with light brown hair. They stand on his doorstep, side by side, like twin messengers of death.

"Uh," Peter says. And then, "Can I help you?"

"Peter Page?" the one on the left says.

"Yes." He wonders, vaguely, if he should close the door. He has a horrible feeling in his stomach. They can't come in if he doesn't let them, right?

"Peter Page," the one on the right says, "you're under arrest for speeding, assaulting an officer, and fleeing the scene of a crime. You don't have to say anything, but it may harm your defense if you don't mention something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say can be given in evidence."

"I - wait, I'm sorry, what? When was this?"

"Just this afternoon. Turn around and put your hands behind your head."

"What - what car was I supposed to have been driving? Because I was at work today, you can check; we have video."

"A Ford Grenada. Matte black."

But that can't be right, Peter thinks. "That - that was my car, but I sold it to a friend almost fifteen years ago. Someone must have stolen it from him. Ask him. Ask him," he says again, as one of the officers snaps a pair of handcuffs around his wrists. "His name's Gary King."

But the officers aren't listening to him anymore. Their hands on his arms are strong and tight, and Peter knows that if he tried to run they wouldn't let him go. He wants to run. It is the only thing in life he has ever been good at doing - he is better at running than he is at selling cars or raising kids, even, and if he got free, he could run upstairs to the linen closet. They would never find him. He would be safe, there among the towels and flannels, in the dark and quiet.

Peter thinks of his children, waiting for pizza, and then he thinks of Gary, whose car was stolen, doing who knows what out in the city. The handcuffs pull his wrists together, pinching his skin, and what about his wife? What about his children?

What is going on?


End file.
